


Coffee on Canvas

by vysila



Category: Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-29
Updated: 2012-09-29
Packaged: 2017-11-15 07:19:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/524646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vysila/pseuds/vysila
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written December 2011 for muncle's Down the Chimney Affair exchange on livejournal<br/>The recipient's prompts were: ponytail, coffee, canvas</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coffee on Canvas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [girlintheglen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlintheglen/gifts).



**December 22, 1963**

"Accounting is not going to like this, Illya." 

We scrambled up out of the ditch and surveyed our rental car, now nose down in that same water-filled ditch. I didn't have to look at Illya to know his face wore the same crestfallen expression mine did. "Mr. Waverly may make you take that driving class. Again."

My partner lifted his chin defiantly. "A tire blowout is not my fault, Napoleon. Better a damaged car than damaged agents." He shot a sidelong glance at me, one that quickly raked me from bleeding scalp to ruined Italian loafers. "You _are_ undamaged, aren’t you?"

"That would depend on your definition of undamaged." Silently I blessed the impulse that had led me to insist we both fasten those annoying seatbelts. That little voice inside me had been shouting itself hoarse earlier today and I learned a long time ago never to ignore it. "My shoes will never be the same again."

I don't care how hard he tried to disguise it, concern bled through his next words. "You might have concussion. You did hit the window hard enough to crack the glass." 

There wasn't any point in trying to pretend I wasn't worried about him, too. After all, he'd been my friend long before he became my field partner. "My head's fine. Just a cut. I'm more worried about whether you've got some broken ribs." Those seatbelts might've saved our lives but we hadn't stumbled away entirely unscathed. 

"Just bruised, I think." 

He glanced up and down the empty road. We were somewhere south and west of Nashville, Tennessee, late on a damp and chilly December afternoon, and we hadn't seen a single car in the last 30 minutes. The odds were not favorable that we would catch our flight back to New York today.

"You don't think Mr. Waverly will really send me back to driving school, do you?" Illya sounded so forlorn that I grinned, a complete rush of affection for him warming me better than a hefty shot of whisky in coffee.

"Highest incidental damages ratio of any team in the entire section? What do you think?" And without a success to counterbalance the damages this time, I figured we were in for one of Mr. Waverly's infamous lectures at best. 

He wrapped his arms protectively around his midsection, squinted through the rain at the surrounding hills and sighed, one of those patented 'only other Russians can understand the depth of my suffering' sighs he has perfected. 

"I don't suppose our communicators will get a signal out here either."

They didn't.

"There is a town five or six miles in that direction." Illya pointed to our left, the direction we'd originally been going. "There will undoubtedly be a house or farm before then."

The sound crept up on us as we stood in the road staring wearily toward our invisible destination, the welcome rumble of an internal combustion engine. The pickup truck growled to a stop beside us and a bear of a man with a shaved head offset by a bushy red beard rolled down his window.

"Looks like you boys got yourselves in a fix here." He sounded amused as he surveyed the rear fins of the '59 Plymouth sticking out of the ditch at about a 60 degree angle.

Illya gave me another one of his sidelong looks, with a raised eyebrow for good measure. His way of saying 'this one's all yours, pal'.

"Good afternoon," I said, as pleasantly as I could. This fellow looked like he could eat both of us for breakfast and not suffer any indigestion. "Unfortunately, yes. Had a blowout and lost control in the rain. I don't suppose your truck could pull us out?" UNCLE agents are resourceful, but sometimes even we need a little help.

"I got me a Ford truck," he patted his dashboard with obvious affection, "but I ain't sure I can pull her outa there by myself. Y'all just better come with us." He turned to the young girl beside him. "Scootch on over, girl. We got us some company." 

The girl, who looked to be about twelve years old, leaned forward, gave me a passing glance and then focused intently on Illya, her eyes rounding and her mouth dropping open just a little bit. It's a common enough reaction, one I've gotten used to over the years. To Illya's eternal annoyance, the kiddies and babushkas think he's adorable.

I don't mind the girls and grandmas liking Illya so much – as long as the women like me better. 

"I'm Raymond Strayer and this here's my oldest, Cissy. Y'all got anything in there you need? I don't reckon Billy Joe's gonna get out here before tomorrow morning anyhoo. He's got the only wrecker in town."

I looked at Illya. He shrugged, his equivalent of acceptance in lieu of other alternatives, so I stuck my hand out and said, "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Strayer." I politely nodded my head toward his daughter, not that she noticed, still staring at Illya and licking her lips. "Cissy. I'm Napoleon Solo and this is Illya Kuryakin. We, ah, we're from Life Magazine, doing research for a story."

Strayer let loose a high-pitched giggle that would've sounded more natural from a woman half his size and pumped my hand up and down enthusiastically. "Well, don't that beat all. Those are some fancy names, all right. We got us some big city bigshots, Cissy." He released my hand and poked a finger at my nose. "You call me Raymond. Mr. Strayer now, that's my daddy."

Together Illya and I managed to haul our suitcases out of the car and heave them into the truck bed. When Illya started to clamber after the suitcases, Raymond let out a roar that would've put Kitt Kittridge's best bellow to shame.

"It's pouring down rain, man, what you doing? Haul your skinny ass in here. You too, fancypants."

An invisible hand flung open the passenger door, so in we climbed, first Illya then myself. It was a tight squeeze, but those old trucks had bench seats the size of living room sofas. I didn't envy Illya scrunched up against the girl, who now displayed an awkward tendency to giggle nervously and chew on the ends of her ponytail.

# # # # #

"And Americans say _I’ve_ got an accent?" Illya sopped up the last of the country gravy with a biscuit and leaned back with a happy sigh. His face wore the kind of blissful expression I imagined a lion’s might boast after devouring an entire wildebeest. "Every time Raymond said ‘sure’ I wondered when Tennessee had developed a coastline."

"Shore 'nuff." I was too full of country cooking myself to malign the local speech patterns. I surreptitiously eased my belt out another notch and hoped my eagle-eyed partner didn't notice. If he did, well, I had weeks of relentless and caustic teasing to look forward to. It was going to take a month of solid gym work to sweat off the extra pounds I'd gained these past two weeks. "Look at it this way, partner. You can claim another language on your resumé now."

"It’s more of a dialect than a separate language, which means Guerra won't recognize it as an entry." Sergio Guerra, a Section Four agent from the London office, and Illya were unofficially competing for the 'most languages' award. "This promotion to field work has certainly cut into my language acquisition. Guerra is two ahead now."

My poor, fretful partner. "Yeah, but how many cars does he get to wreck?"

Illya's return glare was just for show. He'd go crazy if he were still stuck in Section Four, driving a desk and gathering intell, and we both knew it.

"I could arrange for you to get another concussion, you know."

"Probably before year’s end, too." I agreed serenely, finally luring a reluctant grin from him.

"If not, it won’t be for lack of trying." Anyone else might have taken that for a threat, but I saw the twinkle in his eyes and the slightest twitch of his lips.

"I think you hit on something with the dialect, though. That's what makes me sure there's no Thrush satrap around here after all." I signaled the pretty waitress for a coffee refill. One thing they did right down here was coffee. It was strong, rich and worthy of respect; just what my lingering headache needed. "Non-locals stick out like sore thumbs."

"But what if the satrap is composed of all local people? Then it is we who are the sore thumbs and Thrush is simply hiding in plain sight." Illya gestured with his chin at the other guests enjoying a late breakfast in the Holiday Inn's dining room.

"Do you have any suggestions for flushing them out in that case?" I watched Illya add several spoonsful of sugar to his cup, a criminal act if ever I saw one. "Like I told Mr. Waverly yesterday, we need more information. 'Somewhere in middle Tennessee' is just too vague to waste any more time on."

Illya shrugged, another one of those silent messages that said, 'you're the senior partner, it's your call'. 

I nodded decisively, as if we'd agreed. Which we had, just not verbally. "Well, let's finish our coffee and pack up. We can catch a cab to the airport. Might be able to get an early flight."

Illya gulped down the rest of his coffee, patently more eager than I to return to New York. "Do not forget, we need to arrange a gift basket to be sent to Raymond for his kindness yesterday."

"We’ll talk to the desk clerk when we check out. She can probably take care of that for us.” With any luck it would be the same clerk who'd checked us in yesterday afternoon. She'd been on the verge of turning our ragged selves away as undesirables on first glance, before Raymond stepped in with his cheerful reassurances that we were merely big city slickers without the sense God gave a turnip.

# # # # #

I had just clicked my suitcase shut when someone knocked on our door, hard and sharp like a gunshot. It made both of us jump enough to draw our guns, then look sheepishly at each other.

By the time Illya answered the door both our guns were holstered and our faces blanked of all expression other than polite curiosity. Our professional faces, so to speak.

"Officer?" Illya blinked up at the uniformed police officer who topped him by at least six inches. The officer behind _him_ was taller still. Neither one of them looked like they'd ever been within sniffing distance of a doughnut. Their expressions were nowhere near friendly or amused. If I'd had to call it, I would've said they looked one facial tic away from murderous.

"Solo?" His voice was a bass rumble that came up from his... toes. They crowded themselves into the room without an invitation, blocking the doorway. Illya backed up to give them some room, but I could tell he was tensed for action. He's brought down bigger men than these two by himself. I really hoped they didn't make him mad.

Whatever was up, it didn't look good for our side. Maybe Illya had been right about the satrap being all local and us being the sore thumbs. I put my left hand on Illya's arm as a signal to wait and held out my right hand. "Yes? Something we can, ah, do for you?"

"You can come with us."

"We were just about to check out anyway." I heroically refrained from commenting on the mind-reading abilities of the local bellhop union and instead reached out for my suitcase.

A giant hand, bigger even than Illya’s, came down on my wrist with a grip like iron. "You won’t be needing that." 

A grunt behind me said better than words that Illya’d allowed himself to be captured in similar fashion. I had to give my partner credit. His instinct is toward confrontation, not capitulation, but he trusted me enough to give me room to negotiate.

"Sam." The second, larger officer's voice was even deeper than the first's. "They’re carrying."

And before I could open my mouth to negotiate, I was down on the floor with a knee in my back and my arm twisted up behind me.

For small town cops they were pretty current on their man-handling techniques.

# # # # #

Locked in the back seat of the police cruiser, Illya and I spent the short drive from hotel to City Hall devising a plan of action without words. It's easier than it sounds, when you know someone as well as we know each other. I knew, for instance, that Illya would break left if given the chance, keeping me on his right, because his peripheral vision isn't quite what it should be in his right eye. I knew he'd go low, too, which would give me more room to maneuver. I also knew he'd wait for my signal before he took action; his eyes told me that.

Sam and his bruiser partner were so confident we were confined and helpless behind the mesh screen that they didn't even bother to look our direction. Taking advantage of their inattention, Illya demonstrated one of his outstanding virtues as a field partner: he managed to pull his knees up to his chest, slide his arms under his butt and work one leg after the other through the hoop of his arms, until his hands were cuffed in front rather than behind his back. Sometimes it's like he has no bones, he's so flexible.

Maybe his ribs weren't broken, but I knew he was still sore from yesterday. My arms, shoulders and chest began to ache in sympathy, and once his face went dead white and he sat very, very still for long seconds, although he made no sound whatsoever, not even a hiss of breath. I think I stopped breathing then; if anything happened to Illya because of this, those two goons in the front seat were going to regret this day for a very long time. Or perhaps for a very _very_ short time.

Up until the cruiser pulled up to City Hall, right on the Norman Rockwell town square complete with giant Christmas tree, I hadn't been entirely sure if we were in the hands of a surprisingly efficient small town police force, or an even more surprisingly efficient Thrush satrap. But unless the entire town was part of a satrap, our future prospects were on the upswing.

Except.

There was quite a little crowd gathered in the square and those good citizens didn't seem filled with holiday cheer. Illya stumbled against me – deliberately – as he was yanked out of the car and managed to whisper, "Do they do mob lynchings around here?" He still looked a little white around the lips but it wasn't from pain this time. 

Good question, and one I didn’t have an answer for. The crowd certainly had the makings of a mob. Facing Thrush is one thing; we knew they were the enemy and what they were capable of. But these people weren’t our enemies and I was actually grateful for the not-so-benevolent protection of Sam and Bruiser as they hustled us through the crowd and into the building.

By contrast with the crowd outside, the marble lobby of City Hall was deserted and silent, bearing a morbid resemblance to a mortuary. I had an itch square between the shoulder blades and shrugged to loosen the squeezing tightness in my neck. 

"In here." An ungentle shove made our final destination clear. The frosted-glass door labeled 'Police Department'. 

"What a surprise." Illya rolled his eyes, earning himself another shove. I waited for the exclamation that proclaimed Illya's exercise in flexibility had been discovered, but it didn't come, and then we were through the door and face to face with our rescuer from last night.

"Raymond!"

"Where is she?" He lunged at me, all six feet and three hundred pounds of angry red Southern bear, but stopped short of actual contact and hovered, hands the size of hams fisted and threatening, anger and fear and dread battling across his face. "My baby girl, what did you do to her?"

I risked a quick look at Illya, and saw the same whiplash of incomprehension and bewilderment on his face that I knew had to be plastered across mine. "Cissy? Has something happened to Cissy?"

"That's what I wanna know, you suit-wearin' sonuvabitch! Where's my girl?" He glared even harder at Illya and I remembered just how smitten Cissy had seemed yesterday. It wouldn't be too far of a leap for a distraught father to make.

"Raymond, y'all sit down and shut up. If you can't behave I'm gonna make you go wait with the womenfolk." Here was a voice ringing with absolute authority. I peered around Raymond's bulk and saw a man about my size, wearing a composed expression and a police captain's uniform. His eyes were calm and steady, his manner focused, and I instantly recognized a like soul. 

"You gents sit down." He pointed to two chairs in front of his desk. We obeyed and Sam and Bruiser fell into position directly behind. The captain stared Raymond into another chair just to the left of his desk.

"All right now. Here's how it is. I'm Captain Jack Morton. I'm gonna talk and you boys are gonna say 'yessir' or 'nossir' when I ask you questions. We all clear? Good."

Sam spoke up. "We found them boys to be carryin', Captain." He handed over our wallets and UNCLE Specials.

Of course Illya and I weren't disarmed by any means but they didn't need to know that. We still had our gadgets – cigarette case communicators, exploding buttons, incendiary thread ties and other assorted goodies. More importantly, we had our training and brains.

Captain Morton picked up my P-38 and stared at the vanity initial stamped into the grip. "Mighty fancy traveling companion for magazine writers. Y'all must have some fierce critics." He pulled the magazine and removed one of the darts to examine it. "Doesn't look like any bullet I've ever seen." 

That didn't seem to require a response, so I stayed silent and for good measure shot Illya a warning glance to keep his mouth shut, too. He was still following my lead, giving me enough rope to hang both of us, so I really hoped his faith in me was going to be justified.

Morton put the gun back on his desk and turned to my wallet. He flicked through the driver license, carry permit and credit cards, raising an eyebrow at the name as so many do, counted the cash in the billfold, and then took a hard look at the innocuous gold card. 

"Napoleon Solo. Now there's a name you don't hear too often." His level grey stare bored right through me. "From the U.N.C.L.E." He spelled the acronym out.

Raymond stirred restlessly in his chair. "Get on with it, Jack. My Cissy's out there and you're just a-wastin' time. I'll make them talk if you can't."

Captain Morton leaned forward and folded his hands on the desk. "I'll make this quick, then, because the first 24 hours are crucial in a missing persons case. And because Raymond is ready to beat the crap out of both of you. Cissy went missing last night. Nothing in the house looks disturbed but she just wasn't in her bed this morning. We don't know if she snuck out on her own, or if somebody lured her out. No note, no ransom call. The girl's momma is beside herself, like you'd figure."

Illya looked at me, and I saw the same determination on his face that was filling me. We were going to find that happy, giggly little girl and see her safe into her daddy's arms – or die trying. Maybe we hadn't been sent to Tennessee to rescue a child, but helping people is our professional mandate. And even if it wasn't, it was who we were as men.

Morton was still speaking, but he was watching us closely and I knew he hadn't missed that silent exchange between Illya and myself. "You had contact with Cissy earlier in the day. You had an opportunity to discover where she lives and what her plans were. Life Magazine has never heard of you. You're carrying deadly weapons. Is there any reason why I should not turn you over to Raymond and let him beat the truth out of you?"

"Yessir." I remained mindful of his instructions for the moment. He was giving us a chance; there had been a flicker of recognition when he'd seen the gold card. 

I drew myself up as straight and tall as I could, projecting sincerity and confidence. "Mr. Kuryakin and I are agents of the U.N.C.L.E. – the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement. If you've ever heard of our organization – "

Morton nodded. " – then you know we're in the business of helping people, not hurting them. Raymond did us a great kindness yesterday. We would like to repay him by finding his daughter for him. There's a number on the back of that card. Call it. Or you can call the closest FBI office, which can route your call through to our New York offices. They will verify our identities."

Illya spoke up then, his impatient intensity a perfect counterpoint to my reason. "Do not compound incompetence with further delay." He stood up and pulled his hands apart, so that the handcuffs fell to the floor. "You are wasting time. We can help."

Bruiser reacted quickly, but nowhere near as fast as my partner. Ten seconds later, after a flurry of karate chops and a swift kick where it did the most good, Bruiser was moaning on the floor and Illya wasn't even breathing hard. And everybody in the room was staring slack-jawed at my Russian powerhouse partner. Except for Morton, who never dropped his gaze from mine.

Illya looked a little embarrassed. "My apologies. He is not permanently damaged, Captain." He shifted his attention to me and shrugged."Don't you have a saying in America that actions speak louder than words?"

Raymond blinked. "Well ain't that a sight to see."

"Martha," Captain Morton passed my ID card to a middle-aged woman sitting at a nearby desk, her mouth still hanging open. "Get New York on the phone. But first call Doc MacGregor and ask him to come on by and take a look at Charlie here."

He stood up. "Let's show you what we've got so far."

# # # # #

My stomach took a headlong dive south when I saw what they had. While Illya, with Raymond and Sam respectfully in tow, assessed the rest of the Strayer house (actually a double-wide trailer), I talked to Raymond's wife in the kitchen. The children – Cissy had two younger siblings - had been drawing and coloring the previous evening and the kitchen table was still littered with their masterpieces.

Sherry Strayer needed something to steady herself, a task to focus on, so I asked her to make us some coffee. 

"She's a good girl," Sherry repeated for about the twelfth time. "She wouldn't just go sneaking off like that." Her hands shook as she carefully spooned instant coffee into two cups. Tears spilled down her cheeks. "They were coffee-painting last night." She pointed to the drawings. "Cissy's real talented. I bought her some real paints and canvasses for Christmas, already got them wrapped up and under the tree."

I picked up a stack of the drawings. The younger siblings' efforts looked to be mostly scribbles, but there were some fairly detailed and recognizable drawings too. "Very nice indeed." Sepia toned paintings on paper that smelled strongly of coffee. "Coffee-painting, you say? You mean they use coffee instead of water color or oil paints?" 

"Oh, sure." I grinned and thought of Illya and his concern over Tennessee's intermittent coastline. The teakettle whistled and Sherry poured water into the waiting cups. "They mix it up in little cups. They make it right weak to get the lighter shades, and real strong like sludge to get the darker shades. We did that when we were young'uns too and couldn't afford paints."

I reached for the cup Sherry handed me, and that's when my stomach decided to nosedive. Because the next drawing was a symbol I recognized. A stylized bird, poised to attack. It didn't look any friendlier rendered in sepia than it did emblazoned on a gun pointed at my head.

"This, ah, does this look familiar to you, Sherry?" I showed her the sketch and held my breath.

She did no more than glance at it. "Yep. That's on those little Frenchy hats those kids wear over to the work farm. They dress those poor boys so silly, but I reckon it's better than jailbird stripes."

I took a deep breath and waited for my heart to stop trying to break a few ribs. "Illya!"

Sometimes I think Illya has learned the trick to being in two places at the same time, because almost instantaneously he was behind me. "Must you be so noisy, Napoleon?" 

I didn't dignify his mockery with a response, just handed him the sheet of paper and let the drawing do the talking. 

"You didn't have to go to all that effort to convince me there's a satrap here after all." He brought the paper closer to his face and wrinkled up his nose. "Is that… coffee?"

"Not only is that coffee, but that symbol is on the Frenchy hats worn by the boys at a local work farm." I glanced over for confirmation from Sherry. "Which apparently is where juvenile delinquents are rehabilitated."

She nodded, her face reddening in blotchy patches. She'd clearly begun to understand that this was a valuable clue to finding her daughter. 

Illya dropped the sketch on the table, a half-smile quirking his lips. "Frenchy hats? Do I understand this to refer to berets?"

"It's those funny flat pouchy looking hats, like some French artists wear," Sherry hastened to explain. "Cissy thinks they're real fine."

Raymond finally lumbered into the kitchen, Sam in his wake. Like I said, Illya has figured out how to be in two places at the same time.

"You mean to tell me those fellers over to the work farm have something to do with my girl going missing?" Raymond's face turned beet red. "I'll tear that place apart if I have to!" 

It was a good thing Sam was there, because I don't think Illya and I together could've held Raymond back at that point.

"Raymond, you can't just go storming in there. If this is who we think they are, these are dangerous, very dangerous, people. They might hurt Cissy if we aren't careful. Just leave it up to Illya and me. We know what to do."

"You're crazy if you think you're going in without me," he snarled.

"Or me," echoed Sam, looking equally determined.

Illya sat down at the kitchen table and put his head in his hands. "Oh good, we're sending in the special confusion team."

His movement knocked another sheet of paper to the floor. I picked it up and realized this was a fairly recognizable portrait. The only portrait, in fact, I remembered seeing in the entire stack. Someone important, perhaps?

I held it up. "Anybody recognize this boy?" Everybody shook their heads, but Bubba, Cissy's brother, who'd been sitting quietly in the corner trying to make himself invisible, spoke up.

"That's Tommy. Cissy's sweet on him. I saw them kissin' once, and Cissy said she'd break my arm if I told on her."

Raymond snatched the drawing out of my hand and stared hard at it. "Bubba, I'm gonna wear out your behind for _not_ telling. Does he go to school with y'all? Where's he live?"

Bubba put his hands protectively behind himself, as though he thought his father was going to start beating on him right then and there. "He's one of them work farm boys. He wears that stupid hat anyways."

Illya stood up and cracked his knuckles. "Where is this work farm?"

# # # # #

Illya shouldered into the worn denim jacket. It was a little big on him, but somehow it completed the look. Well, that and the black felt cowboy hat. "How come I always get to be the bad guy?" he complained.

With his youthful wiriness, scowl and unconventional haircut, nobody would question his role as a juvenile delinquent remanded to the work farm. I patted his cheek. "It's because you're just so darned cute."

"Thank you for reminding me of that unhappy fact." His glower increased by a factor of thee.

Captain Morton held out a folder to me. "Solo, here's all the necessary paperwork. Arrest record, judge's order, custody sheet. They'll expect to sign the custody sheet and keep a copy of everything. Martha called on ahead to let them know you're bringing this, uh, Eric Karlsen, out to them today. We've used the facility before once or twice, so there's nothing that should ring an alarm bell for them."

He shook his head. "I should've known something was wrong when that new feller took over the place last year. He's never been very friendly and started getting all their supplies from way out toward Waverly. We hardly ever see them in town nowadays. When Bill Perry ran the place, they were coming and going all the time."

"Waverly?" Illya and I chimed together. 

"Nice little town 'bout an hour or so west of here. Guess he didn't want anybody sniffing around too close. Never heard any complaints from neighbors, or families of the boys they keep out there, though, so I reckoned it was just one of those things that happens in government."

All agents are superstitious one way or another, and I chose to take this as a positive sign. Things were going to go well this afternoon.

"Now remember, you wait for our signal before you come in." I handed my communicator to Morton. It'll buzz –" Illya turned the dial on his communicator and mine chirruped " – and all you have to do is turn the receiver dial like so, and then you'll be able to hear Illya. But even if he doesn't say anything, that's the signal. You come in then."

Morton, Sam and Raymond all looked at the small device with identical bemused 'what will they think of next' expressions.

"Where are you gonna be, then?" Raymond asked.

"Wherever I need to be. I'm going to try to stay inside as long as I can. I'm pretty good at keeping my foot in the door. If I have to leave, I'll probably bring the car back to you and see if I can't slip back inside the perimeter. They always have some kind of perimeter warning system, and who knows what else. But you fellows need to come straight up the driveway when you get the signal, fast as you can, sirens blaring. And call for backup before you do, and make sure the folks on the farm know more help is on the way. We don't want anybody getting hurt. All we want—"

"Is to get my Cissy out safe and make sure none of the kids get hurt." Raymond nodded his big head slowly. "I'm all for that."

"We don't want any of you getting hurt, either," Illya reminded him softly. "Cissy wouldn't thank us if anything happened to her father."

My glasses had slid down, so I pushed them back into place. Illya brushed invisible lint off my suit jacket, and smiled. "The very picture of an upstanding bureaucrat." We locked gazes for a long moment. 

"Come on, partner, I'll give you a ride," I said, and bowed him out of the office.

# # # # #

I looked in the rear view mirror. Illya was sitting in the center of the rear seat, to all appearances as glum as a real Eric Karlsen would be, considering his lack of future.

"You have the exploding buttons?"

"Yes." 

"And the garotte in your belt?"

"Yes."

"And the smoke bombs in your shoe?"

"Yes."

"And the homing device in your other shoe?"

"Yes."

"Don't let them take the cigarette case away from you."

"Yes."

"And—"

"For pity's sake, Napoleon! I have done this before. You do not need to treat me like a fractious child."

"I was just going to say, we're here. Better put on the cuffs."

"Oh." There was a rattle of chains and then a distinct click.

I stopped the car at the end of the driveway and took the time to turn around before parking. Sometimes a little precaution makes all the difference between a successful or an unsuccessful escape.

"It's show time, Eric."

Eric curled his lip at me. "Screw you, copper."

By the time I wrestled my uncooperative passenger out of the car, two men had come around the side of the house. They were nowhere near the size of Sam and Bruiser, er, Charlie, but the shotguns they carried lent them a certain amount of authority. They were wearing familiar looking jumpsuits with very familiar arm patches.

"Ah, gentlemen!" I stuck out my hand, not expecting either of them to notice and wasn't disappointed. "You certainly look prepared to handle this young ruffian. I am David Whitt from the Department of Children's Serv—"

"We know who you are. You got some paperwork for us?"

The other one prodded Illya with the shotgun and motioned him to start walking toward the rear of the house. Illya gave me another scowling look over his shoulder. 

I pretended to be flustered. "Ah, yes. Which one of you is Edwin Wilkins? Uh, sir, would you please stop walking? I'm not supposed to let young Eric out of my sight until he has been properly received by Edwin Wilkins."

"He's in the house. Just give us the paperwork and you can be on your way."

"Oh, no no, I couldn't possibly do that. Last month, you see, there was a case where someone from the DCS handed a young miscreant over to the wrong person and the child, a girl in that case, escaped and caused all sorts of trouble. And the poor DCS fellow, why he lost his job over it all! So you see I couldn't possibly let Eric out of my sight until I have Mr. Edwin Wilkins' signature, in triplicate, on four forms."

I was quite out of breath by the time I finished that spiel, but it seemed to have done the trick. Both thugs looked thoroughly exasperated. The second one prodded Illya again, indicating that he should head for the front door. Which he did, dragging his heels the whole way, the very picture of a defiant delinquent.

I just smiled. "Thank you, gentlemen. I do so appreciate your cooperation. Really, it's worth my job if I don't dot every i and cross every t."

"Okay, okay, go on in. Lyle, get Ed for Mr. er, Mr…"

"Whitt, David Whitt."

And that was when our plan went to hell in a handbasket.

A man, presumably Edwin Wilkins, came into the entry hall from a side parlour, followed by a skinny fellow of about 15 wearing a face I'd last seen painted in coffee, and Cissy. Cissy was crying. "All I wanna do is go home," she wailed.

"Shut up, girl," snarled Wilkins, just before he slapped Cissy. He too wore a face I recognized, although it hadn't been painted in coffee the last time I'd seen it. It had, however, been in a folder of known Thrush agents.

Illya lunged forward. I'm not sure what he thought he was going to do, strangle Wilkins with the cuffs chain before either of our shotgun toting escorts could pull the trigger, or what. Maybe he was just going on instinct and didn't have a plan.

Wilkins caught sight of me and two realizations obviously struck him at the same time: he had an audience and he recognized my face. And then he went down under Illya's assault, one shotgun barrel discharged, Cissy screamed and several people, including me, shouted "Duck!"

The hubbub drew plenty of attention. Pounding feet upstairs heralded the arrival of about a dozen gawky adolescents. A couple more thugs came from some part of the downstairs. I smelled an overwhelming scent of garlic so I figured maybe they were coming from the kitchen.

By then I was preoccupied with three things: finding Illya and Cissy, making sure they hadn't been shot, and laying my hands on Illya's communicator. Although with any luck the noise of the shotgun blast might've carried all the way out to the road, alerting Morton and crew to danger.

I ripped the exploding cufflink from my left sleeve, turned it counterclockwise one quarter turn to arm it, and threw it as hard as I could toward the garlic smell. Three seconds later there was a satisfying boom, the light fixture above me swayed alarmingly and several pictures and various small items went airborne and bombarded us below. The two shotgun wielders seemed to think the explosion heralded a flanking maneuver, which drew them off. 

The hall suddenly filled with smoke and I knew Illya was still in action then. If we could just find each other and Cissy, I could use the other bomb in my shoe, the one with the pink knockout gas. 

"Napoleon?" 

I couldn't see him through the smoke, but he sounded close. "Illya? Did you send the signal?"

"Yes. And I've got Cissy. Where's the door?"

"Follow my voice." It was a risk, but one I was willing to take at this point. I had my gun, filled with darts, and was ready to shoot just about anything that moved.

"I may have accidentally done Wilkins an injury."

I grinned. "Oh, good. I can't wait to read your report." I had the second smoke bomb in my hand, the one that would give us an even chance of getting out of here alive. Those two shotguns still had to be here somewhere. And who knew what else.

A hand touched my leg. I didn't recoil from the touch; some instinct said 'Illya' and my instinct proved right. "There you are."

"And there's the door, right behind me. Cissy, are you all right?" Illya and I stood up and pulled Cissy to her feet. She was silent and white-faced, apparently too frightened even to cry. I think she nodded, and that was all we had time for. Illya yanked the door open and we fell through. I tossed the gas grenade and closed the door behind me, not wanting to get a lungful of the gas. 

We weren't home safe by any means, but the grenade would knock out anyone in that hallway for a good 30 minutes. By then the backup would be here and we could start the mopping up process.

A black-and-white was rocketing up the driveway toward us, fishtailing every which way in the mud and rain. Raymond jumped out of the back seat before it stopped and started slipping and sliding his way toward the house.

"Daddy!"

I turned away from the happy reunion and glared at my partner. "Whatever happened to 'I make the plan and you execute it'?"

He shrugged, his expression only slightly sheepish. "I had to improvise."

"I didn't ask you to improvise, I said 'follow my plan'."

"Your plan was about to implode on us. I had to do something."

"Like launch an attack while in handcuffs with two shotguns pointed at your head? Great improvisation."

"You're always so critical, Napoleon. It worked, didn't it?"

"After a fashion. I suppose." My heart had nearly seized up in my chest when he'd launched himself at Wilkins and that shotgun discharged, so terrified that I was going to see him torn to bloody shreds. For one blinding endless moment I'd regretted encouraging him to apply for field work, if that was the price I had to pay.

He grinned, an impish flash of delight. "And that's what counts, my friend. Making it work. One way or the other."

# # # # #

"Thank you for that concise report, Mr. Solo. The situation appears to be resolved satisfactorily. Wilkins, or rather Koenig, and his associates will be escorted to our Washington bureau for questioning. A security detail has been dispatched for that duty."

"Mr. Kuryakin will be pleased to hear that." Lounging beside me on a deck chair and sipping from a long-neck Budweiser bottle, Illya nodded. He'd worried we would get stuck with some of the mop-up work, since U.N.C.L.E. had no local office.

"The juveniles are being reassigned to more legitimate rehabilitation facilities. Quite an interesting project they had undertaken, recruiting juvenile delinquents in that manner. I daresay after a few years under Thrush tutelage those youth would have proven a formidable foe."

"Yes, sir." I nudged Illya with my elbow and he passed the Bud over to me.

"You say the child is none the worse for her experience?"

I looked over Illya's shoulder and through the living room window, where Cissy was currently bent over her father's knee receiving the 'whuppin' of her life' she'd been promised. "Not yet, at any rate."

"Good, good," Waverly responded, sounding slightly distracted. No doubt some other crisis had already engaged his attention. "Then I shall expect to see you and Mr. Kuryakin back in the office tomorrow. There is a potential situation developing in the Balkans that may require our attention very soon."

"Yes, sir." I handed the beer back to Illya and returned the communicator to its more mundane appearance.

"So, no time off for the righteous." 

"In your case, I think that translates to 'no rest for the wicked', Eric." I tucked the cigarette case back into my pocket. "Pass me the bottle."

"Gladly. It is vile stuff and does not qualify as beer."

I upturned the bottle and drained it. "Don't disparage Raymond's down home hospitality, tovarisch. Not everyone has your sophisticated taste."

Illya leaned back in the chair and stared at the cheerful lights edging the porch overhang. The lights blinked gaily, washing his face and hair with color. "Don't lecture me, Napoleon. I saw your face when he brought out the case."

The door banged open and Cissy stepped out onto the porch. She swiped an arm across her face and sniffled dramatically. Illya and I both stood up.

"Daddy says I need to apologize for causin' you so much trouble." She looked down at her shoes and stuffed the ends of her ponytail into her mouth. She needed to outgrow that unattractive nervous mannerism sooner rather than later. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to." Tears slid down her round, childish cheeks. "When Tommy knocked on my window, I just thought he wanted to talk and maybe kiss, like before. I didn't know he was gonna kidnap me!"

She flung herself at Illya, wrapped her arms around his waist and started crying in earnest. "He's been sneakin' outta that place ever since summer, comin' over to see me." She hiccupped and Illya stiffened like a board, expression frozen somewhere between horror and panic, not quite knowing where to put his hands while she watered his jacket.

"There, there." I patted her shoulder and offered my handkerchief.

She only wailed harder. "That man out at the farm was awful. He punched Tommy and knocked him down 'n slapped me an' said he was goin' to make examples of both of us, an' there were men with guns an'.. an'—"

"Cissy! You stop blubberin' all over Mr. Ill-ya and get yourself up to bed. Ain't you caused him enough trouble for one day?"

Raymond's bulk filled the doorway. In the living room beyond young Bubba was rubbing his backside and crying, so presumably he also had had his 'behind wore out', as threatened.

"Yessir," she mumbled and fled past her father.

Raymond held out his big hand. "I can't thank you enough for what you done today. That girl ain't got the sense of a blue goose, but I reckon she'll think twice before taking up with a fellow she don't know again."

I shook Raymond's hand. "We were glad to do it, Raymond. You helped us, too. We've been all over this part of the state looking for that place. We never would have found it without Cissy. When you think about it, Cissy did a real service to the world today, by leading us to the Thrush satrap."

"That's no nevermind to me. She shouldn't a-done what she done." Then he sighed. "I don't know what I'd do if anything bad happened to her, or Bubba or baby Libby. I can't hardly believe what was going on right under our noses."

Raymond turned to Illya and clasped his hand in turn. "I know you boys gotta get going, but anytime y'all are in this neck o' the woods, stop by. You're always welcome here."

"Thank you, Raymond. We'll keep that in mind."

As we climbed back into the loaner car, Illya said, "I still have one question about the entire affair, Napoleon."

"What's that?" 

"Why did you call this 'The Coffee on Canvas Affair'? Cissy's paintings were all on paper, not canvas."

I laughed. My dear, literal partner.

"Poetic license, my friend. And alliteration."

# # # # #

Two weeks later, Sarah Johnson hand delivered a parcel to our office. "Illya, this came for you. It's been cleared by security."

Illya looked up from the report he'd been typing up on the Balkan affair. We still hadn't settled on a name for it. "For me?" 

"Fan mail from a flounder?" I sniped from behind my own mountain of paperwork. 

Illya was already ripping the heavy brown wrapping paper from the package with the enthusiasm of a five year old at Christmas.

The last of the paper fell away from the item. Illya and Sarah stared at it in astonishment. "Christmas Angels?" Sarah raised a questioning eyebrow at Illya. "Do I want to know?"

Illya just smiled and turned the item so I could see the sepia-toned portrait of the two of us, protectively hovering over a round-faced girl with a ponytail. 'My Christmas Angels' was printed across the bottom of the canvas in childish lettering, and 'Cissy 1963' was scrawled in the upper right corner.

I came around the corner of my desk and sniffed appreciatively. "Ah, coffee. On canvas."

Illya and I grinned at each other, and together we propped the painting in a place of honor on top of the filing cabinet. 

And for years to come, when we were hurt and tired and questioning, all we had to do was look at the picture of that ponytailed girl to know that it had been worth all the sacrifices and pain. 

Because together we made a difference, Illya and I.


End file.
